Along a country road southeast of Humboldt a pair of fence posts standing like sentinels are evidence of a gate once leading to a house. Just inside the fence, lush green flower stems brighten an otherwise dreary patch of waste ground.
Beyond is the old homesite bordered by second-growth cedars and weeds laid over by winter kill.
A cellar, once stocked with preserved fruits, vegetables and meat, is easily identified by rocks, broken bricks and other remnants.
Coyotes fashioned dens there last spring for whelping their pups. The burrows were requisitioned by possums and skunks in the fall; now they’re ready for another round of habitation.
To the south sits what’s left of a henhouse, once replete with fresh eggs to greet the farmwife each morning. What she didn’t use for her family she sold, squirreling away nickels and dimes for a prize bonnet or a few yards of gingham for a new dress.
I bent to go into the farmstead’s old smokehouse. A roughly finished concrete floor is dated April 2, 1931. I think the structure is older. Upright supports are made from rough-hewn posts, cut from timber that line a nearby creek.
The doors have handmade latches, and are held in place surprisingly well after so many years by heavy hinges fastened to what’s left of the building with square nails. Those nails date to the 1800s and were forged by blacksmiths.
An old tin roof keeps part of the shed dry. A skunk, most likely, has dug a refuge under the concrete floor.
THIS SIMPLE escapade might not tantillize many; but to me it was exciting, not so much for what I discovered but for the opportunity.
I find each journey into the countryside, whether meandering about a farmstead or traipsing through woods, a calming exercise, freeing my mind of concerns about coronavirus.
I enjoy taking my metal detector to such places, with a preference for artifacts over coins that usually have common dates.
I also like to delve into old farm dumps. Practically every place where a house stood years ago has one. Bottles of all descriptions and other interesting articles often pop up.
Together with collecting coins and tokens, as well as arrowheads, my outdoor excursions are sufficient to more than amply fill my self-imposed quarantine while waiting for Covid-19 to wane.
I seldom will be in the office while the virus has a presence of consequence. However, I hope to keep you, dear readers, entertained with Saturday installments of At Week’s End from a cheerful perspective.
